Mom is nodding along as I talk, right before someone calls her name. She peers over her shoulder and offers a thumbs-up before giving me her attention once more. “That’s okay, baby. You heal up and we’ll reschedule. I have to jump off the call. I’m being summoned, but I’ll call you as soon as the shoot ends, all right?”
“Yeah, no worries, Mama. I’ll talk to you later. You look amazing,” I call, blowing a kiss to my phone. “Crush the shoot. Love you, guys.”
Mom gives me a beautiful smile in return, my aunties waving over her shoulder before blowing a kiss back. “Love you, baby. Talk to you later.”
The phone goes black the next moment, my apartment descending into silence, and I reach for my phone just as I find the ingredients to make French toast and fruit. Dialing my best friends in our usual group chat, I listen to the phone ring as I go about preparing my breakfast, each of them answering with a sheepish greeting one after the other.
Taking a deep breath, I face the camera and glare at my best friends’ faces, each of them battling laughter, hiding grins, and wincing visibly. I glance at each of their pretty faces, feeling the betrayal I’ve suppressed until now, before it all comes bubbling to the surface. Time to give these assholes a piece of my mind.
“You’re all dead to me. You know what hell I’ve been through because of you three ass-lickers? Let me tell you…”
And man, do I spend a solid three hours chewing their asses out, listening to their collective laughter and dealing with their mockery all while I share every single detail of what happened yesterday.
Chapter Fifteen
Maddie
The remainder of my time off is spent in relative peace. Well, if you call my best friends’ constant harassment a peaceful occurrence. As it is, I’m pretty used to the constant calls we all share, and it’s nice to have a group of besties to chat with, laugh with, and fill the silence with.
In any case, the next couple of days are spent working on edits from my home office, snapping promotional pictures for the girls’ and my social media, and wondering if I have neighbors at all. I’ve barely heard a peep from them, almost convincing me I’m living above church mice or something. I’ve only heard their door close a handful of times, and I suspect that’s only because one of them is a little heavy-handed with it.
Between working and wondering if my four neighbors were a figment of my sex-deprived imagination, I’ve also found myself constantly checking on the progress of my bruises. Unfortunately, it gets worse before it gets better, and according to the mighty web, it’s likely going to take just under two weeks for my face to return to its normal state.
Fuck my actual existence.
That means, when I start to get ready for my first day back at the studio, it’s done with chagrin as I peer into the mirror and find the canvas I’m forced to work with. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to use a whole bottle of concealer and foundation to cover this mess, and even then, I’m confident it’s going to be a hat and sunglasses kind of day.
With a sigh to end all sighs, I retrieve my makeup bag and go about trying to fix the mess of my own creation, careful of my stitches as I pat and swipe, dab and brush every ounce ofmy face into what I consider a presentable state. Unfortunately, the bruising is still slightly visible through my very best efforts, so I make peace with the fact that I will be wearing oversized sunglasses all day today. I might get a few questions, but I’d rather those than inquiries about what happened to cause the ugly bruise that is still very obvious.
Trudging to my closet, I slide my cell out of my pocket, checking my messages as I get ready. I find a reminder on my phone declaring the studio as Suit Up Day, a theme we have once a month just for shits and giggles. Whoever comes to work in the boldest suit wins a prize they can pull from a mini claw machine I bought for the studio. Last month, Kenny won a brand-new design tablet that she cried real-life tears over. I mean, if that doesn’t scream incentive, what does?
Plus, it’s fun, it gets everyone involved, brings people out of their shells, boosts confidence, and gives everyone a laugh first thing in the morning. It’s grown to be a favorite activity for the entire studio. I never thought it would be received so well, but three years later, I have a whole section of my closet dedicated to bold suits.
Checking the clock on my cell and realizing I don’t have as much time left to get ready, my makeup having taken up most of my allocated getting-ready time, I scan through my suits quickly and reach for the brightest article of clothing my hands can find.
Which just so happens to be a two-piece suit as yellow as the sun, with a white outlined flower print that only spans the arms, chest pocket, and lapels. The buttons are shaped like daisies, much like the ones patterned on the material, really overselling the whole floral thing. The pants are just as bright, bold, and flashy, enough that I’m sure I’ll get several looks today, the floral pattern only taking over my right leg while the other remains in its yellow solitude.
Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff.
If I don’t win today, I’m rebelling.
Retrieving a white lace bodysuit, suitable underwear, and white pumps, I dress as quickly as I can, only having enough time left over to finger-comb my icy-blue hair, place a white fedora on my head, and put the biggest sunglasses in my arsenal on my battered face.
Hurrying out of my room after snagging a white mini backpack, I practically sprint into the living room and find my black purse, making the bothersome switch of contents from one bag to the other. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder as soon as I’m done, I snag my keys from the kitchen island and beeline straight for the door.
Only to pause when my cell rings with a text notification… all the way from my closet.
“Oh, fuck me comatose,” I cuss, running through the hallway much like a newborn foal finding its legs for the first time since becoming earthbound. Trying to keep my balance in four-inch pumps proves to be an Olympic sport that almost has me teetering right into a wall when I turn to dive into my room, the carpet thankfully saving my life on my journey to the closet.
Finding my cell on the dresser, I snatch it up and stuff it into my pocket before checking my messages, deciding it can wait until I’m not running late.
Once I’m sure I have everything, I make the perilous journey through my apartment once more, my heels suddenly losing any and all traction on the slippery floor and actually skidding just two steps away from the front door. My body collides against the door with a loud thump, and I wince at the possibility that I might have woken my neighbors again.
Sadly, I don’t have time to apologize, time running a little too thin to receive an ass-chewing for being loud again. So, with a mental apology sent, I snatch my camera bag off the hook Iusually leave it on, hurry out of the door, and lock it behind me. I make sure to check either side of my door like a soldier silently making her way through battle, and when I’m sure Chode isn’t in the vicinity, I skedaddle to the elevator and repeatedly press the button like it’s a game I’m determined to win. It doesn’t make the elevator arrive any faster, but it somehow soothes the anxiety that has budded in my chest, the worry of being late a tragic character flaw of mine that I simply can’t escape.
Ask anyone closest to me, and they will tell you I’ve always been that way. Being late to absolutely anything sets my teeth on edge, sends my anxiety into a tizzy, and genuinely stresses me out to heights I could easily skydive from. I’m usually at least five to ten minutes early to anything that is a planned event, will constantly check the arranged time for any meeting, and am often the first to arrive at work.
Finally, the elevator door opens, and I hurry on board, pressing the button rapidly once more. The doors don’t shut any faster, rude, if you ask me, and I cross my arms as I glare at the mirrored wall in front of me just as my foot begins to tap relentlessly against the metal floor.
